


who are you?

by lovelyorbent



Series: invictus. [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:36:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3455912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyorbent/pseuds/lovelyorbent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what some other people think about yancy becket.</p><p>(or: i try to avoid writing yancy, but write yancy anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	who are you?

**Author's Note:**

> so here's the story: i was trying to write something about the kaidonovskys but all i could get out was yancy. so to get myself OUT of his head i did something that was about him but from other people's perspectives. this is a crappy confusing piece of shit thing but i kind of like it a little so i'm posting it even though it's literally the least important thing in the world. i'm sorry

( **Dominique.** )

Yancy Becket is a pair of arms around your waist, a little boy with a bright, crooked smile that spells mischief even if he never seems to really get into any. Is a few cheeky words in French that he shouldn’t even know, but you made the mistake of using them in front of him once and now he’s claimed them as his own.  Is a careful turn backwards of his head, even when he’s running around and playing the way little boys do, to see if he needs to slow down and let his brother and sister catch up.  He’s a cool hand holding your hair back when you’re ill, a quiet presence in the doctor’s office, a strong face for his siblings even though he’s also hidden tears on your neck in a too-tight hug, is putting on his face again before he leaves your room.  You imagine at your funeral he will be a straight spine and a steadying point for his brother and sister.

 

( **Raleigh.** )

Yancy Becket is a hand in your hair, lips pressed to your forehead.  Is a little pause in front of the closed door to the room your mother used to sleep in.  Is broad shoulders, thrown back in a Starbucks uniform like he can make himself look older than he is by just carrying himself like an adult.  He’s a grin that you’re pretty sure is forced, a joke that he clearly doesn’t think is funny, always stupidly encouraging words, even when there’s nothing about the situation that’s encouraging.  He’s a hand on your shoulder, holding you steady from a half-step behind you, always stepping into your fights to finish them, because he’s never let anything hit you that he couldn’t step in front of instead, even though he taught you how to protect yourself when you were young enough that you shouldn’t have had to know.  He’s a dirty joke and a wicked smirk and cards hidden in his sleeve, is so effortlessly charming you’d be jealous if you weren’t admiring instead. He’s a hat shoved onto your head, pulled over your eyes, while you try to bat him away.  He’s your older brother, and the one constant thing in your life is his presence.

 

( **Tendo.** )

Yancy Becket is probably a forties movie star.  He’s a laugh that belongs in one of those corny black and white pictures, the easy military grace from a propaganda film, a smirk that could put Errol Flynn’s to shame. He’s lazy eyes and an arm slung around your shoulders, feet crossed on a table like he’s at home everywhere he goes, the mocking voice calling you a nerd even though he’s also the next breath that he uses to tell you he’s amazed.  He’s the hand clapping everyone on the chest or the shoulder or the back, the guy who tells the other cadets _hey, try again tomorrow_ , when shit doesn’t work out.  He’s Raleigh’s shadow.  He’s lips on the neck of some Jaegerfly in a bar, hands slipping around her waist, is blue-grey eyes flicking upwards over her shoulder to look directly at you as he pulls her out the door.  Is always pretending he has it together even when he clearly doesn’t. Is Raleigh’s frantic voice screaming over Gipsy’s radios, is a vanishing signal on the dashboard, is the empty space in his brother’s eyes and the unearthly quiet of the crews for weeks after Knifehead.  Is a ghost in a hospital bed; a broken figure on crutches, painfully helpless and angry about it; a lame joke in a stammering voice that doesn’t come close to touching his eyes. Is trying too hard to pretend he’s still the same person who left the Icebox with two legs at two in the morning.

 

( **Alison.** )

Yancy Becket is a text from your boyfriend in the middle of the night.  He’s a long body sprawled, indolent, across your couch, a book propped up in one hand and a set of amused eyes peering over the top of it. He’s a hesitant kiss that turns into fingers on your jaw and the aching lack of air in your lungs. He’s a sharp upwards curve of lips over Tendo’s shoulder as his hands fumble through a sentence. He’s fingers pulling his shirt down when you try to slip a hand under it, an uncomfortable laugh, a metal leg by the side of the bed that he always seems to avoid looking at. He’s a picture from a fitting room of your fiancé in a plaid tuxedo with the phrase _I like this one_ written under it, a refusal to tell you what the getaway car from the reception is going to look like, an embarrassing story with champagne hanging from the fingers of one hand, the same hand that will hand your husband your ring tomorrow. He’s a joke about his brother with real concern hiding behind it.  He’s a night out with your husband without having to worry about finding a babysitter for your son, a snoring head knocked back against the couch when you get home, the baby slung over his shoulder. 

 

( **Stacker.** )

Yancy Becket is a failure of a military stand to attention, leaning on his crutches and unable to straighten his spine properly.  He’s a smile that’s trying far too hard to be confident and jaunty even though you know from your personal experience that going from being an able-bodied young man who feels like the world is yours to being disabled and seemingly stagnant doesn’t lend itself to the sort of careless charm he’s still trying to pull off. He’s the frustration in his voice behind the stutter; the word “sir” at the end of every sentence, even the ones that don’t need one, like he’s trying to make up for something; a limp that he almost seems furious about.  He’s halfway to being a young man you remember being once, but he’s too short-sighted by far to make it all the way there.  He’s a metal leg that represents one thing your daughter can accomplish, one thing of many. He’s a ruthlessly competent administrator hiding behind the face of the boy he clearly thinks people want to see. He’s a lightening of the mood in a staff meeting, which you pretend is unwelcome but which, often, is necessary. He’s a package deal. He’s a restraining hand on his brother’s shoulder, an apology for him that you don’t really need to hear. He’s a liability, because he’s too caring about the wrong things, and he knows it.  But he’s dependable, and you need dependable people. He’s a good soldier.

 

( **Chuck.** )

Yancy Becket is what’s left of Gipsy Danger.  He’s an appraising look, another person you have to impress, because he was one of the greats. He’s one of the people whose work you respect.  He’s your boots in line every morning in the mess at the Academy, your reports delivered professionally because you want to look good, the languid grin who appears at the back of the room the day you make one of your students cry.  He’s his worthless little brother’s tail the whole time you're in Hong Kong.  Is a flash of angry eyes behind Raleigh, a hesitation before he jumps into your fight, he’s a shaking mess of pain on the ground.  He’s the sharp taste of regret and cooling rage in your mouth.  He’s a sailed ship.  He’s the Drift with Herc, harshly condemning, and he’s his father’s agreement, and he represents what Chuck has failed to accomplish, and like everything else that Chuck fails to accomplish, that only makes his opinion more important.

 

( **Cadets.** )

Yancy Becket is a bark at the front of the room, a few cutting words to scare you shitless on the first day, a hat dropped low over his eyes when he sleeps in the hall during his free period.  He’s a clang on a metal floor, a limping gait across the mess hall, sharp teeth and bright eyes and fingers snapping to bring your class to heel.  He’s a hunched shoulder against yours in the mess hall, like it’s totally normal for him to be sitting on the benches next to you all. He’s the sound of a critical pencil on paper, a mocking _tsk-tsk-tsk_ sound that is carefully engineered to make you think you’ve disappointed him, and also somehow your feeling that the last thing you want to do is disappoint him. He’s a sigh and a couple of encouraging words when he thinks maybe he pushed you a little too far, never apologetic, but often correcting.  He’s a card trick at the table at the nearly-empty mess on Friday nights, a constant presence in the sim rooms, a crossed pair of arms in the Kwoon when the Fightmaster is beating you through your paces, right foot twitching like he wants to get up and jump in.  He’s a gentler set of orders out of the classroom than in it, a funny story if you catch him during his “free” period that always starts with _me and my brother_.

 

( **Mako.** )

Yancy Becket is a cold space in Raleigh’s head that you can’t recognize for being the grinning, joking man you met in your father’s office when you were still fourteen and starstruck with Jaeger pilots.  He’s in Gipsy’s cockpit as surely as you are and his brother is, an impossible ghost in the Drift, thoughts much more serious than you would have thought he was. He’s a hand in Raleigh’s hair, always, because that’s how he says _I love you_ when he’s not saying it out loud, a hand on Raleigh’s back, a hand punching him in the shoulder, a hand strong on a staff, smiling over the mats, he is none of your memories of him.  He’s your father’s exasperated face that is struggling not to shift into mild amusement, a thoughtless shield thrown between two fighting men.  He’s a gentle sort of curve of the mouth looking at you, as if there’s something he wants to tell you that you would find embarrassing. He’s a fervent thank you in Japanese when you bring his brother back to the Hong Kong Shatterdome, an apology for his inability to bow that you didn’t care about in the first place. He’s the heat rising in your cheeks when he teases his brother about you, a half-hearted shovel talk that sounds more like he lost a bet than that he plans on any sort of murder.

 

( **Herc.** )

Yancy Becket is a stammered joke, a razor grin to hide his obvious irritation with himself, one foot up on the desk visible over the grainy connection between Sydney and Anchorage. He’s you from your early RAAF days, half-confident and half faking confidence until it comes in proper, walking around like he’s daring anybody to say anything about his leg all while he tries his best to hide how it doesn’t really belong to him anymore. He’s a sad boy, is Yancy Becket, and he probably doesn’t know it, because he’s so caught up in making sure he’s everybody’s support in some way, but happy men don’t force goofiness as hard as he does.  He’s the bark of laughter clawing its way up your throat, dry and mirthless, the hand clapping you on the back just this side of too hard because he knows you can’t reciprocate, an elbow in your side after he’s gotten comfortable enough with the idea that you aren’t _sir_ to do it, and a drink sliding over a bar. He’s a vicious fucking card shark and a shameless cheater, a flash of white teeth when you catch him with a full set of aces hidden on his person.  He always thinks he’s so damn subtle when he’s worried, but he’s not, he’s so obvious he might as well be shouting it, glancing over at you every five minutes and then pretending he isn’t doing it, showing up all over the place to pet Max and try to make you laugh like laughing will somehow fix what you’ve lost. He refuses to leave you the fuck alone to grieve, and maybe that’s a good thing.


End file.
